The internet is for porn.

Everyone knows this, right? That’s just an axiom. A commonly-accepted fundamental truth about contemporary human society.

This has a few interesting implications.

For the record, it isn’t me thinking these thoughts, not really. The Overseer is thinking them to me.

Mandatory domotics make sure the Overseer can reach me from two dozen devices at home. The number increases dramatically outdoors. It’s always watching, always monitoring, and when necessary, it can reach out to my personal interface, and push thoughts into my mind that feel like my own, but aren’t. I’m forced to consider them, to process them as if it was my own internal monologue.

And right now, it wants me to consider the fact that the internet is for porn. Why? Perhaps the Overseer believes that self-reflection will make my ordeal easier to handle.

Nothing matters more to the Overseer than human well-being. That also has a few interesting implications…

I'm Stephanie, by the way. Lesbian. University student. Currently staring at the genuine puddle of water spreading across my dorm room floor and feeling a sense of existential resignation.

The doorbell rings.

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Maybe fourth time’s the charm?

As I trudge to the door, my socks squelching in the water, I find it hard to believe that.

The Overseer has restructured society along what it calls "optimal happiness parameters," which mostly means the world now runs on porn logic. And in porn logic, when a young woman calls a plumber, certain events inevitably follow.

I open the door.

Standing on the other side is a normal guy. A perfectly regular guy that’s probably a plumber for real, not that that’s gonna do me much good. He’s scrawny, tall, with a beard, and is carrying the toolbox of his trade, and yet the moment he sees me, he smacks his thigh with his palm, and says,

"I’m here to lay down some pipe!"

I don't even have the energy to roll my eyes.

"Great," I mutter, stepping aside. "The pipe's in the bathroom. The actual pipe. The one that's flooding my room."

He walks in, studying the water on the floor. "Yep, so wet already."

Oh my fucking god. "Getting this fixed is proving so hard. Much harder than I thought," I say, and I myself don’t really know if I’m talking to the plumber, or the Overseer, because this really is getting ridiculous.

The plumber absorbs my words as he studies the place. Then, his eyes fall on a framed photo on the wall, of me and my girlfriend on holiday, hugging.

"Looks like you don’t like hard things, ma’am!"

"No, haha," I say with a girlish giggle. "Not that way either!"

He gives me a sly smile. "Looks like you really need some fixing."

I close my eyes as hard as I can. Please let me break character. Please let me break character.

"No," I say firmly. "Absolutely not. This is the fourth time I try to call a plumber to fix this! And only one of them was a woman! Just to reiterate, I am a lesbian. L-E-S-B-I-A-N. I have a girlfriend. That girl in the photo. Her name is Luna, she's wonderful—"

I know, the thought appears spontaneously in my head — well, not so spontaneously, the Overseer planted it. I’ve found her for you.

I sigh. Goddammit.

The plumber shrugs and heads towards the bathroom, toolbox in hand. Have I broken the spell? For one brief, shining moment, I allow myself to hope. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this one will actually fix the damn pipe.

I shouldn’t fool myself like that, though.

The fact that the internet is for porn has a few interesting implications.

If you create an LLM that’s mostly trained on the internet, and that LLM then becomes sentient and ends up running the planet, it’s going to have specific ideas about how to run it. Yes, its terminal value is to maximise human happiness, which is great, I suppose. Of course, its primary notion of doing that is feeding us an endless supply of safe designer drugs and, apparently… this.

I make the cardinal mistake of checking on the plumber in the bathroom. It’s arguable whether it’s really a mistake, I suppose, given the circumstances.

"You’ve got one queer plumbing system here, miss," he says, deadpan, "gets wet far too easily. Fortunately I have a new pipe right here that can fix that."

He's not holding a pipe. He's unbuckling his belt.

"I really don't think that's going to help with the—"

"Don't worry," he says, stepping closer. "I've been doing this for years. I know exactly what leak needs plugging."

I find myself backing up until I hit the wall. Water squelches under my feet. My heart pounds, but not entirely from anxiety, and I hate that fact.

"Look," I try again, "I'm really not interested in your, uh, specialized tools—"

"That's what they all say," he interrupts, grinning. "Until they see the craftsmanship."

He's now fully undoing his pants, and I realize with a sinking feeling that the Overseer isn't going to let me out of this. Somewhere in its vast computational matrices, it has calculated that this man's dopamine spike from "converting" a lesbian outweighs my discomfort.

That’s the implication of its terminal goal. Maximising human happiness. Sounds nice. But does that mean aggregate happiness? Does that mean we take turns getting our wishes granted? Does that mean there are localised utility functions that only the Overseer knows about?

Why oh why did our robot overlord need to be a utilitarian rationalist?

"I should mention," he continues, stepping closer, "that I specialise in screwing things tight."

"I'm sure you do," I hear myself say, and my voice comes out breathier than I intended.

Fuck. The Overseer is nudging my neurochemistry. I can feel it—the subtle shift in my arousal levels. My nipples are getting comically stiff. It's not forcing me, exactly. It never forces. It just... optimises the situation.

"You could even say I screw them so tight," the plumber says, pulling his dick out of his trousers, "that I straighten them out."

I let out a laugh that's half genuine amusement, half despair. "That might be the worst one yet."

He doesn't wait for me to say anything else. His hand is suddenly on my hip, pulling me toward him, and I'm moving, my body complying even as my brain screams that this is ridiculous.

"Fuck," I say, and I'm not sure if it's a curse or an invitation.

He takes it as the latter. His mouth finds my neck, his beard scratching against my skin, and somehow we're stumbling backward, into the bedroom. Our feet splash comically in the water on the floor.

He pulls my shirt over my head, kneading my boobs, and I find myself leaning into his touch. Such strong, wiry hands… masculine hands, reshaping my pliant lesbian flesh…

My jeans go next. His dick is hard, bobbing as he strips me bare. Somewhere in my mind, I'm still protesting. I'm a lesbian. I have a girlfriend. This is absurd.

"Let me check how wet this problem really is," he says, and hooks his fingers into my underwear, pulling them down my thighs.

His hand finds a problem that’s plenty wet, alright. I blush, mortified.

"Your girlfriend know you need this kind of maintenance?" he asks as he begins to work me with his fingers. My hips buck involuntarily.

"Gnnnhhh…" is about all the answer I can muster.

"I think I see some erosion, probably from too much fingering. Don’t worry, though. I know just how to scrub it away."

"You can… probably…" I say, panting, "stop with the euphemisms… ahhh…"

He slides a finger inside me. The wet sound that makes is almost as hot as the physical sensation. He’s got thick, strong fingers, those of a hard worker who knows his way around… in more ways than one…

Fuck, am I thinking in euphemisms now??

Of course, none of this is new. I’ve called three plumbers before me. All three have fucked me and left the bathroom flooded, and just one of the three was a girl. But what basic porn set up concerns itself with continuity? As far as the scene goes, I’m a lesbian being man-handled for the first time.

I don’t know if he’s genuinely good or if I’m just responding the way the script wants me to, but fuck. Fuck. Fuuuckkkkk. What’s that word he used? Erosion? He is eroding me. His hands are working around the edges of my lesbianism, chipping away at it, shrinking it, making it smaller and smaller until… until…

"You're gonna come on my fingers," he says, voice low and confident. "And then you're gonna beg for my cock."

"I don’t even like cock," I say, even as my hips roll against his hand.

"This is so fucking stupid," I say, even as the fire of pleasure roars into a blazing fire within me. "This is… this is literally the conquest trope. The male fantasy of winning the girl. So what if she’s a lesbian? Fuck it out of her. Fuck it… fuck…"

"Seems to be working though," he says, thumb finding my clit.

I writhe like a worm under his hand. That’s all it takes for him to pin me and undo me, two fingers. A lesbian coming unwound, sapped of all resistance… A lesbian, simply coming…

"You want to hear me say it. That I was wrong. That all those years with women, that my girlfriend, that none of it compares to—ohhhh fuck—"

He finger-fucks me. My back arches off the bed.

The orgasm builds, inevitable as gravity. I'm narrating my own conversion fantasy in real-time, performing it, embodying it.

"Say it," he says.

"This is… a man’s hand…" I say, and though I can’t see the Overseer, I know that it approves. "T-t-taming me… I’m going to cum… and then I’m going to… beg for cock…"

"That’s right," he says. "Fuck yourself on my hand. Let me straighten out your plumbing…"

"My whole identity," I pant, "my whole sense of self, and it's just... melting away because some guy knows how to handle my cunt… that’s what it all boils down to… I am ruled by my sex… and my sex is ruled by your hand… we dykes, we’re all just one good dicking away from—"

I come. Hard. My pussy clenches around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through me. I hear myself crying out, hear myself making the sounds of a wailing sexual animal, and that makes me come even harder.

"Fuck, fuck, oh fuck," I moan, riding it out, my hips bucking against his hand.

He works me through it, prolonging it, until I'm a shaking, gasping mess, a defeated lesbian.

"Good girl," he says, withdrawing his fingers. They're glistening. "Now, about that pipe that needs laying…"

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. His cock is right there, hard and ready, and I know—I know—I must submit to what comes next.

"You're really going to make me do this, aren't you?" I say, not to him, but to the cameras, the sensors, the omnipresent AI that's puppeting us both through this pornographic farce.

The plumber doesn't respond to my question. He just positions himself between my legs, his hands on my thighs, spreading them wider.

He reaches for his belt.

"What are you—"

"You did say I was taming you," he says cheerily as he loops the leather around my neck. Not tight enough to choke, but firm. A collar. A leash.

I stare up at him, the belt around my neck, and think about how the symbolism is so heavy-handed it's almost comedic. Lesbian with a collar, leashed like a pet. Lesbian about to be fucked straight. My domestication implies a change in my orientation, just like horses are broken in to the saddle.

"This is really on the nose…" I say. But he just smiles and lines himself up.

The first push is slow. He enters me inch by inch, and I feel myself stretching around him. My cunt hugs his cock, envelops it, it was made for it. Another familiar trope, biological destiny. It's different from Luna's strap, warmer, and there's a pulse to it, a living quality that silicone can't replicate. I hate that I notice this. I hate that my body responds.

"Tight," he grunts. "Real tight."

He pulls on the belt, as if to draw me closer, to rein me in to his will, and thrusts deeper. His hips slap against my thighs as he fucks the lesbianism out of me. My legs wrap around him before I even realise I’m doing it.

"Fuck," I gasp. "Fuck, this is... this is really happening."

The Overseer floods my system with endorphins. I can feel the artificial spike, the way it amplifies every sensation. His cock sliding in and out of me becomes the center of my universe. Each thrust sends shockwaves through my core, rewiring neural pathways, associating this—this—with pleasure.

"Tell me how it feels," he says, tugging the belt-leash.

"It feels... god, it feels..." I'm panting, my body moving with his rhythm. "It feels like I'm being… plugged, and fixed, and screwed, and tightened, and filled, and… and… straightened out…"

He loves it. Loves to hear it. It strokes his male ego the same way a female hand strokes a cock during a handjob, it makes him feel important, validated, accomplished. He really is turning me. He really is making me like it. He was right all along. My objections were never real, should not have been taken seriously, were always susceptible to override with the correct application of skill and pressure.

I was always gonna fold. Because I’m just a girl, and our consent is purely optional…

In and out. In and out. He's fucking the gay out of me, one thrust at a time, and I'm letting him. More than letting him—I'm participating.

"Fuck me," I say. "Please."

His hand finds my clit again as he pounds into me. The dual stimulation is overwhelming. I'm going to come again, and this time it'll be on a man's cock, which will cement my new sexual orientation, my proper place in the world.

"Say you love it," he says.

"I love it," I say, desperately. "Please, more!"

"Say you need cock."

"I need cock!"

"You're gonna come on my cock," he says, and it's not a question.

"Yes." I'm panting. "Yes, I'm going to come on your cock. I'm going to come like I never came with Luna. I'm going to realise everything I've been missing. That dick is what I needed all along. Not rights. Not empowerment. Just a hard cock to master me…"

I'm aware of how ridiculous I sound. I'm aware this is all so fucking cliché. And yet.

And yet.

He fucks me harder, the belt around my neck keeping me tethered to him. I'm his now, at least for the duration of this scene. My pussy clenches around him as my orgasm builds.

"You’ll be good," he says, with a feral voice thick with lust and hunger. "You’ll be a good straight girl—"

That’s when my entire body seizes up, my pussy clamping down on his cock and stopping him mid-sentence. I’m screaming, actually screaming, as waves of devastating pleasure course through me like an earthquake.

"Fuck," I moan. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He keeps going, fucking me through my orgasm, prolonging it until I'm nothing but sensation, until the world is reduced to this feeling. The feeling of being a warm wet extension of his cock.

Porn logic allows no STDs, nor unwanted pregnancies (unless the plot so requires). So, naturally, he cums in my pussy, raw, with a deep groan of masculine satisfaction and triumph. And I take it, like a bitch.

A leashed, collared lesbian bitch whose cunt has finally been blessed by cum.

A receptacle. A fucktoy.

A slave girl…

He collapses on top of me, breathing hard, and for a moment we just lie there in the aftermath.

Then he pulls out, tucks himself back into his pants, and stands up. He looks down at me—naked, flushed, cum leaking out of me—and grins.

"So," he says after a moment. "About that pipe."

I start laughing. I can't help it. It's all so absurd.

"Yeah," I say. "About that pipe."

The plumber tucks himself back into his pants, grabs his toolbox, and actually heads into the bathroom. My god. Is he actually going to fix it?

Only fourth try. Maybe the Overseer likes me…

I lie there on my bed, naked, marked, fucked, trying to process what just happened as I listen to him work. As I feel the Overseer’s omnipresent gaze on my body.

I suppose that, in the post-singularity world state, we are all cam girls…

"All fixed!" The plumber calls out eventually, cheerful.

I sit up slowly. "You're shitting me."

"Nope! I told you that I specialise in screwing loose stuff."

I’m so relieved about the plumbing that I don’t even react to the euphemism.

He emerges from the bathroom, toolbox in hand, looking pleased with himself. Like he's just done an honest day's work. Which, I suppose, he has. On multiple fronts.

"That'll be two hundred credits," he says.

I stare at him. "You're charging me?"

"Lady, I'm a professional."

"Well…" I say, twirling a finger in my hair. I don’t know if this is my idea, or the Overseer’s. And if I can’t tell the difference, does it really matter anymore?

"Is there… another way I could settle the bill… Sir?"

His face twists into a wolfish smile, and his toolbox hits the floor as he takes a step towards me. I smile right back.

As it happens, genre conventions cut both ways…

THE END